


Identity

by Canaan



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dom/sub, F/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canaan/pseuds/Canaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it gets too bad, River goes to Jack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Torchwood/Doctor Who Comment!Porn Battle VIII. Takes place immediately after the Doctor leaves River at the end of The Impossible Astronaut. May eventually go into a continuity, but for now, it's standalone.
> 
> BR by Yamx. Disclaimer: I don't own them, and I'm sure the BBC is relieved.

"River." Jack's voice was low and warm as she sat down beside him, suitable for the muted tones and rich velvet draperies of _Maxine’s_. The familiarity in his address made her ache for a man who was slowly forgetting her. "It's been a while."

River smiled, knowing it didn't touch her eyes. For Jack, she didn't have to put on a brave face. "I've been a trifle in prison," she said.

"When you're not running around the universe with him?" Jack's smile was gentle and a little sad. He was at a point in his own very long timeline where she'd had something he thought he never could. And she couldn't, wouldn't, mustn't tell him otherwise.

Spoilers.

She swallowed against a sob and leaned into him when he drew her close. "I kissed him, Jack. I kissed him, and he kissed me for the first time." _For the last time._ They'd been friends a long time, she and Jack; she didn't have to say it for him to know. She'd just lost a lover, even though they weren't entirely in sync and she might yet see him again at a time when he knew her in that way.

Jack took her in his arms and held her: a moment of shared grief for a man they'd both lost. Then she nipped sharply at his throat and yanked at his collar, ready to bury the sense of loss under other things.

Clothing was a necessary evil, but not at _Maxine’s_ , and they did away with it quickly. The lounge beneath them gave an aesthetically pleasing creak as they wrestled each other down on it, but there was no chance of its giving way. For a moment, better leverage and the strategic placement of River's knee had her on top, but Jack would always outmass her, and when he flipped her over, she didn't object. Their kiss was a struggle for control that neither of them would ever win, because they weren't really fighting with each other. She raked her nails down his back.

He hissed and bucked against her, too much friction as his hardness rubbed over her clit without the benefit of the juices slicking her folds further down. She wrapped her legs around his waist, biting her lip against the mix of pleasure and pain. "Damn you, Jack," she breathed in his ear.

"Probably," he whispered, rubbing again.

It was quick and rough and wasn't going to win any awards for style, but _Maxine’s_ was more about the atmosphere than the entertainment. She gasped and surged against him, swearing quietly the whole time as she grew wetter and his strokes grew longer. Her breathing quickened and she bit and sucked at his throat as she rubbed against him, climbing the unstable precipice toward climax. He was going to bring her without even entering her, and it was maddening, and rude, and . . . and . . . .

At the last possible moment, he dragged his hips away, gripping hers hard when she tried to follow him. She growled and rode the edge of orgasm, her nerves alight and her body straining with need as the moment passed. Deep, gasping breaths filled her lungs, and slowly, she relaxed. "Bastard," she said.

"I'm going to be inside you when you come," he murmured, moving against her again.

They were both slippery by now, and he teased her with short, light strokes for a while, and she let him, holding still for him, dragging one foot up and down the back of his leg to see if his knees were ticklish there. He slipped his fingers between their bodies and inside of her, playing them against that one particular spot until she was so close she begged him to stop.

When he did, she begged him not to.

It was a game, and it wasn't. The longer he kept her from release, the harder it was to think, and the less she could think, the less she could mourn a man who hadn't died yet. (Only she'd seen him die, seen him die and gone on with her life, because it wasn't the end of things. Not for her.) By the time she straddled Jack's lap, they had an audience. For all the difference it made. She rode him in exactly the way she wanted until he gasped into her ear, "Don't. Don't . . . ."

She was so close. But she didn't.

When orgasm finally came, it was a conflagration. She felt it in every fibre of her body, burning her down to ash, down to atoms, down to the quantum essence of her very self.

By the time River was aware again, she and Jack were lying together on the lounge, spent. She made a noise, just to let him know she was back, and got one in return. They didn't waste breath on words. There was nothing worth saying.

When she could move again, she would get dressed. She would go back to Stormcage and serve her time, and wait until the Doctor needed her again. She was used to rising from the ashes. She would give birth to herself again and again, as companion, friend, lover, ally, stranger.

Until, at the end, there was nothing left of River Song.


End file.
